Cormac advanced also holding his sword ready to strike. He had a sudden strange presentiment that his life was within the power of the man before him, who had the invincible air belonging to one of Nature’s own warriors.
Suddenly the untrained horse swerved to one side and bounded away. In an instant its rider had slipped from its back and advanced towards Cormac, a tall thin figure in the dress of a monk, with the front of the head shaven after the manner of the Hibernian tonsure. Then the blood from the young warrior’s wound came and blinded his eyes once more. All was darkness.
He felt sick and giddy from pain and confusion of thought—why was he fighting against the Ionian monks?
A hand closed on his like a vice of iron—a strong arm was thrown about him. He was dragged from his saddle and forced to render up his sword.
Someone wiped the blood from his eyes. He looked up and saw again the white, beautiful face and flashing eyes that had faced him on the battle field.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Columba!”
CHAPTER XI.
Saint Columba.
“Treachery somewhere,” said Columba, when he had heard Cormac’s story. “Treachery that has brought bloodshed and loss upon them and well-nigh cost them their leader.”
The holy man had borne Cormac tenderly from the battlefield to the little wattled cote in which he preferred to live rather than in the great hall King Aedh had prepared for him. He had washed the wounds of the youth, and kept constant watch by his bedside.